Inevitably Indebted
by GinaVonBohr
Summary: The Duke of Mason is looking for a wife, with familial pressures to secure the line stronger than ever. Meanwhile, Emmett McCarthy has returned from an expedition abroad and has misplaced his wife. Will the Dukes find their Duchesses and live happily ever after?
1. Chapter 1

The Duke of Mason's Townhouse, England

September, 1890

"You need a wife," Sir Carlisle Cullen told his nephew as he strode into the dining hall that morning.

"I do," Edward, the Duke of Mason agreed easily, as he peered over the morning papers that the butler had just brought in.

"You need an heir, too."

"Certainly," Edward nodded, still not looking away from the article he was reading as he spooned eggs into his mouth methodically.

"Go with me to London," Emmett McCarthy, Duke of Argyll suggested, hefting his large self into the seat next to Edward. "Good morning, Sir Cullen," he greeted Edward's uncle, almost as if an afterthought. The Duke of Argyll had been friends with Edward since before their Eton days, and was no stranger to the household. Having just returned from a ten year long expedition to the Far East, tracing the Blue Nile, Emmett McCarthy had seemed to have misplaced his manners after living amongst savages for so long. Not that he had plenty of it to start with.

But Carlisle Cullen took no offense at the younger man's lack of grooming, and grinned easily. "Good morning, Emmett. I trust you slept well?"

"There is nothing better than waking up on Egyptian Silk sheets on a feather-downed mattress," Emmett assured the knighted doctor, the second brother of the late Duke of Masen. "And to breathe in the fresh, English mist - there's nothing like being back in London, Sir. I am utterly indebted to your hospitality."

Carlisle waved Emmett's thanks aside. "You've stayed with us since you were a boy. Every summer back from Eton - wrecking havoc amongst my brother's flowerbeds and horse stables - "

Emmett grinned.

"I'm only here until I locate my wife," he said. "No trampling over flowerbeds this time, I assure you. Which brings me back to the topic at hand. Edward, attend the season with me! I need to catch my wife, as much as I'd rather be fishing for salmon back in the Highlands. As do you!"

Those London debut balls are horrid," Edward shuddered, now looking away from the papers at last. "All those mothers looking at you like vultures ready to devour a fallen lion, while their daughters prance around like geese. How could you have misplaced your wife, by the way? I didn't even know you had one!"

"But there's bound to be a pretty geese amongst the flock," Emmett pointed out. "As for my wife, we were betrothed as children - when I was twenty and she was twelve- and in my haste to avoid the bounds of holy matrimony I jumped out of our marital chambers and onto a ship sailing to Africa. I just returned, and I need to collect my wife."

"Collect your wife," Edward repeated, sounding utterly fascinated. "Go on."

"What's there to go on about?" Emmett now looked up, looking bewildered.

"Why are you back to collect her now, if you had ran away to Africa in the first place? You never told me anything of this sort, you cad! All those letters you sent - waxing poetry about the Blue Nile and coconut trees, and then the sun and the sand in Greece - "

"It quite slipped my mind," Emmett confessed. "Until my father passed and I had to return, with the pressure of securing the line. I had entirely put the issue of my marriage out of my mind before this."

"I can't believe you," Edward exclaimed, sounding thoroughly impressed. "Do you even remember the name of the girl you were betrothed to?"

"The daughter of the Marquess of Hale. What's her name - Rose? Rosie?"

"Rosalie," Carlisle corrected, grinning wildly at the breakfast table entertainment.

"Right! Exactly, Lady Rosalie Hale," Emmett said, sounding relieved at having discovered his wife's name. "So as I was saying - before you so inelegantly derailed my train of thoughts - go to the debut ball of the Earl of Blatchford's daughter with me! I have received news that my wife will be there, and there will be plenty of pretty girls out there for you."

"It's not their looks," Edward rolled his eyes at his friend. "It's their brains I can't stand. Empty, like a pillow case. I won't be able to stand living with someone with naught but a few down-feathers in her head for the rest of eternity. I won't."

"But a wife has no other duties but between the sheets," Emmett pointed out. "I for one do not look for intelligence in bed."

"They're all stupid," Edward insisted, petulant.

"Your father met your mother at the ball," Carlisle pointed out, finding the need to defend the gentlewomen of the ton. "And I met your aunt at one, too. Are you saying that she's stupid?"

"Who's questioning my lack of intellect?" Esme Cullen's amused voice drifted through the dining room, before she materialized.

"No one, Aunt Esme," Edward quickly assured her, standing. Emmett grinned, nearly upending his chair as he stood too.

"Pleasant morning, Lady Esme," he greeted happily. "I was just telling Edward that he ought to attend the season with me. I've got to go collect my wife, and he has to fish for one - we'll have a whale of a time!"

"An excellent idea," Lady Esme beamed. "Edward, I love you like my own son - it's high time you got a wife and produced an heir! You're thirty, for goodness sake - why, your father got married to your mother at twenty-eight, bless their souls!"

The late Duke of Masen and his wife had died in a shipwreck sailing back from a holiday in France when Edward was just a boy, and his uncle and aunt had looked after him since then. He almost thought of them as his parents, and they - childless - had always thought of him as a son.

"I shall inform the Countess Renee that we shall be attending her daughter's debut ball tomorrow. No time like the present to start your fishing. And you, Emmett - how could you have misplaced your wife?"

-.-.-

The Earl of Blatchford's Townhouse

September, 1890

"What does he look like?"

There was a pause.

"He has dark hair, I think," Rosalie said dubiously. She was sitting at a dresser in her best friend's house, preparing for the evening's ball.

Isabella Swan burst into laughter, and winced immediately. Moving her cheeks was a bad idea, especially when one was bruised black and blue. Alice had to cover it up with so much face-paint and powder Isabella felt as if she'd painted on a mask.

"Don't laugh," Rosalie scowled. "Your husband isn't returning from Africa after he leapt out your bedchambers fifteen minutes after signing the license."

"I don't have one," Isabella pointed out.

Rosalie eyed her friend with pale blue eyes. "And you should put more effort into catching one tonight," she said. "You're beautiful - you could get a Duke, even - if you'd bother to smile and flirt a little. And then you could escape your father and his flying fist."

Isabella sighed.

"And sighing is not the way to catch a husband," Rosalie added firmly. "Which gown are you wearing?"

"Which gown am I wearing?" Isabella turned to ask her maid.

"The blue silk," Alice said, laying said gown on the bed.

"Ah," Rosalie grinned. "For all your mother is not worth, at least she's good at getting you the best gowns."

"She wouldn't let me out of the room if I didn't look as expensive as the chandelier from Venice hanging over the dining table," Isabella assured her friend, as Alice helped her into the gown. "It's too revealing," Isabella frowned, staring at her reflection in the glass. "I can see half my bosom falling out. And once I bend over - everyone can look straight down the bodice to my navel! What was Mother thinking?"

"That this is the best way to catch a husband," Rosalie chuckled. "You look exquisite, Isabella - stop tugging at the lace! It won't make it grow anymore fabric. And it's the fashion now to reveal your breasts - not that you have much of them. Best to show off what little you've got," Rosalie told her friend.

Isabella scowled, glancing at Rosalie's most generous amount of breasts. If all husbands wanted were breasts - well - Isabella was certain she wasn't catching one tonight. She was thin, with a miserable excuse for a chest - not even the size of apples!

"Now, wipe that scowl off your face. Men don't want guavas or jackfruits of breasts - they want perky bits that fit perfectly into their hands. You're a little small - but a Duke with a smaller hand wouldn't mind them, I'm sure. Don't look so morose, Isabella. Alice, what are you going to do with your Lady's hair?" Rosalie asked, thoroughly enjoying herself.

"Don't _you_ have to get ready?" Isabella asked her friend, desperate to suffer this indignity of getting ready for a ball when she most likely wouldn't even be asked to dance alone. "What about your missing husband?"

Rosalie made a face, before tossing her golden curls over her shoulder as she got up. "I suppose I should get ready for that great ape of a duke I've been married to for ten years. Not that the marriage is legitimate - it wasn't even consummated!"

"You were twelve," Isabella said sensibly as Alice wrestled her Lady's thick brown hair into silky waves.

"And I've been a married virgin for eight years! Goodness - can you imagine what a virgin Madonna I positively am?"

"Not at all," Isabella told her friend. "I'm sure you'll rectify that status immediately - once your husband finds you, that is."

"I most certainly plan to," Rosalie grinned wickedly. "And so should you," she said, before leaving the room.

-.-.-

Emmett McCarthy, the Duke of Argyll walked into the ballroom, flanked by Edward Cullen. He looked about impatiently, hoping to catch sight of his wife. Rose. No, Rosie. Rosalie - but there was no sight of her anywhere. Vague memories brought forth images of a skinny girl with golden hair that shone in the sun - but there were way too many blondes at this ball to say with any certainty which one was his wife.

"Damn, I can't find her," Emmett muttered to his friend, who was being accosted by the Countess Renee Swan at that very moment.

Edward shot him an amused glance, before turning back to smiling almost robotically at the Countess.

"Isabella is a gorgeous dancer," Lady Renee was fairly gushing. "You simply must meet her."

"Of course," Edward murmured politely, nodding to the Earl who was standing nearby, his mustache perfectly waxed.

The Earl of Blatchford nodded back at him.

Now, that was someone Edward could stand. Charles Swan was a stern and respectable man, as far as Edward knew. They moved in similar financial circles, the rare breed of gentlemen who cared to play the stock markets. From what he knew, Charles Swan was a well-bred, decent gentlemen - most unlike his wife, who was chattering at the speed of an Arabian horse.

Lady Renee was towing him by the elbow through the ballroom, and now they entered a smaller chamber. A quick reconnaissance of the room told him that in matters of wealth or title, no unmarried man present matched him - with the exception of his friend, Emmett, who already had procured a wife and was simply here to collect her.

So, strictly speaking, Edward was pleased to note that he needn't waste time courting a wife once he'd chosen her. Marriage was a market like any other. When he found the right lady, he would simply outbid his rivals.

The countess was still tittering on and on about her daughter, Isabella, and Edward couldn't help but wonder if the girl would prove his Law of Opposites correct. Girls were never what their names suggested, in Edward's experience. A wench christened Lily often turned out a shrill virago with none of the grace her name might suggest. Prudence hardly ever turned out sensible, with too great a lust for frivolous pursuits. Charity was often a Grinch disguised in a ball gown.

Isabella Swan - the girl was more likely to be an ugly duckling.

The Countess drew him to one side of the chamber and stopped before a young woman.

"Lady Isabella," she said with a flourish, and Edward tried his hardest not to look surprised. For Isabella Swan was every bit as beautiful as her name suggested.

Lady Isabella did not belong in an overheated English ballroom, Edward thought faintly as he bowed before her. She was utterly otherworldly - large, brown eyes that made you think of sweet almonds, a perfect straight nose that bred true to her heritage, sweet plump lips that begged to be kissed -

"Your Grace," Lady Isabella was saying, her perfect rosy mouth curving into a polite smile as she dropped into a deep curtsy, inclining her head. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Even her voice was as lovely as her name suggested.

"The pleasure is entirely mine," Edward said, meaning every word. "May I have the honor of your hand for this dance?"

To Edward's surprise, he found that his gesture was not met by girlish eagerness, but by a composure and grace so startling for a girl so young.

With a slight inclination of her head, Lady Isabella accepted his hand with the merest of a gentle touch. As slight as the contact was, it seared through their gloves, and lighted something in the very core of the wealthy Duke.

One in the ballroom and in his arms, Isabella danced as gracefully as Edward might imagine a swan could - not that he'd ever seen the bird dance. She was quiet and pliant and utterly exquisite, and towards the end of the dance, Edward realized that they had barely exchanged a single word. Weren't English gentlewomen known for their endless chatter and gossip? Yet, this true bred lady hadn't seemed to feel the need - nor the inclination - to converse with him. Still, it was the most comfortable silence of Edward's life, and the most enjoyable dance he'd ever had the joy of partaking in.

"Dance with me again," Edward commanded, once the number had ended - and was profoundly surprise at himself.

Lady Isabella looked surprised too, for she regarded him with a slight widening of her large brown eyes.

But when he held out his hand, she only paused for a brief moment before putting her hands in his again. Carefully, as if taming a wild bird, he placed his other hand on her waist, and fought the urge to grip hard and pull her slight self against his hard body.

As they danced, and her legs brushed against his, Edward became aware of two things. First, the entire assembly was watching them. The Duke of Mason was dancing twice in a row with Swan's daughter - the news would be in every gossip rag by dawn. The second was that of a throbbing in his groin, and a tightening of his breeches. As calm and collected as the Duke of Mason prided himself to be, as full of composure as he was rumored to be - he was now in dire danger of losing his cool. Everything male in him called out to take the girl and claim her as his in front of everyone, and it look everything in his self-control not to do just that.

He catalogued her features to distract himself from the aching in his loins - before realizing that it was counter- productive. Lady Isabella was utterly delicious. Her lips held a natural curve, as if she had a secret in reserve, something Edward longed to kiss and ravish the truth out of. Her neck was long and slender. Even her collarbones were delicate, and if Edward looked further down - his breeches were likely to be tented further up.

As the final strains of the waltz died, Edward bowed to his dancing partner, and silently thanked god that his coat was long and not cut-away, as in the fashion nowadays, successfully hiding the strain in his breeches.

Another man had turned up to ask for Lady Isabella's hand in a dance, and Edward decided that he would likely be causing quite a gigantic scandal if he refused to let anyone else dance with the lady. After all, he hadn't quite asked for her hand in marriage yet. Which brought him to the next course of action - where was the Earl of Blatchford? He had matters to discuss with the man. Numerous matters now, as a matter of fact.

-.-.-

Emmett had located another friend from Eton in the meanwhile, rather than his wife.

"What were you doing in Africa for eight years?" Lord Paul Gilham asked Emmett. "Eight years! Is there a Yellow Nile or a Purple Nile too?"

"Only the blue and white one," Emmett informed his friend. "I spent some time in Africa, crossed over to Abyssinia, and then to Greece."

"Doing what?"

"This and that," Emmett answered vaguely, still looking around distractedly. "But I've came back to find my wife. A Lady Rosalie Hale - we were married when we were young - you happen to know which blonde head is hers, by the way?" he asked, craning his thick neck. A long winding line of bouncing dancers were making their way along a diagonal - and just then, a gap in the line of dancers widened and he saw a gorgeous woman laughing at a man. Her body was so indicative of desire that he felt a matching burn in his chest. She shook bright gold hair over her shoulder, and it fell like sun spun silk.

"My god," Emmett whistled appreciatively. "Who is that beautiful woman?"

"Which?" Lord Gilham asked.

"The one over there, laughing with her husband."

Lord Gilham leaned over to see, and chuckled.

"Why?"

"She's beautiful," Emmett sighed. "I'd have her in a minute if I wasn't already married."

"That isn't her husband."

"No?"

"No," Lord Gilham snorted. "You are. That's Lady Rosalie Hale, daughter of the Marquess of Hale."

-.-.-

Whatever Rosalie imagined she would feel on meeting her errant husband for the first time in eight years, she never considered pleasure. Pleasure, and lust, if she was being honest with herself.

One moment she was laughing at Lord Royce Kensington, and the next, a large male hand was turning her around, lifting her up.

"Lady Rosalie! My wife!" the owner of the large hand guffawed happily, wrapping her up in his equally gigantic arms.

Rosalie tilted her head upwards, and found herself looking into merry blue eyes and a tanned face with dark hair.

"Your Grace," she grinned, despite being squashed like a Dutch-pillow. "How pleasant to meet you, at last."

It was, because the Duke of Argyll was the largest man she had ever laid eyes on. His shoulders and chest were broader than anyone else in the ballroom, and his arms were bulging with muscles. Even his legs looked like powerful tree trunks. Everything male in him appealed to Rosalie's female nature, and she found herself unable to look away from her husband - even if he was half-dressed for a ball of this nature.

"The pleasure is all mine," Emmett grinned at his wife, wondering how fate had dealt him such a lucky hand. Rosalie Hale was easily the most beautiful women in the entire room, in a silver gown that shimmered and clung to her every luscious curve. "May I have this dance?" he asked, as another waltz started up.

Rosalie accepted his large, spade of a hand and they started in the familiar steps of the waltz. Except Emmett was not a very good dancer, to put it mildly, and Rosalie found herself avoiding his trampling elephantine foot more so than dancing.

"You're an awful dancer," she informed her husband, pulling at him sharply to avoid crashing into another couple.

Emmett simply grinned. "Father never retained a dancing master for long. I was more interested in climbing trees than skipping in a circle."

"And I don't suppose there were any dancing in Africa," Rosalie said drily.

"Oh, but there is! Whole villages dance together," Emmett told her. "Naked."

"How nice," Rosalie murmured, for lack of a better thing to say. She was starting to wonder if her husband was slightly mad - first he turns up lacking a coat and a cravat, next he picks her up like a limp rag, and then proceeds to trample all over her foot - and now he was declaring naked dancing in Africa. Rosalie was starting to rethink her initial emotions at meeting her husband as erroneous.

The dance finally ended, and Emmett turned to her.

"Would you like to dance again?" he asked, blue eyes twinkling.

"Not at all," Rosalie assured him. "I think you don't quite fit in this room - let's find a quieter and larger area to accommodate your large - "

"Larger than life self," Emmett agreed happily. "I wholeheartedly agree, Rosalie. Would you like me to claw my way to the drinks table?"

"Oh," Rosalie's eyes lit up. "I would, indeed," she said, enjoying the notion of sending her barbarian of a husband on an errand. "I should like a glass of champagne, please."

Emmett nodded, looked around, and poked one of the footmen standing next to a door. "You! Fetch me two glasses of champagne, thank you."

Rosalie laughed, despite herself. "I thought you were going to claw your way to the drinks table for me?"

"I believe in delegation," Emmett grinned, nodding his thanks to the footmen as he accepted the two flutes of champagne and led Rosalie into a small alcove with a comfortable looking orange sofa.

"Looks like a pumpkin," Rosalie remarked, ducking into the alcove and eyeing the sofa suspiciously.

Emmett let the heavy gold-gilded orange curtains fall back as he stepped into the alcove after her. He sprawled down upon said orange stuffed furniture, and grinned. "Doesn't feel like a pumpkin," he told Rosalie, who perched gingerly on the edge of the over-stuffed chair.

"How are you, Rosalie?" Emmett asked, when it became apparent that Rosalie hadn't much to say about the sofa. He turned his large body so he was facing her, and ducked his head to look at his wife's face.

"Excellent," Rosalie answered, looking up at him. She seemed startled, and the way her pale blue eyes widened made her look even more like a perfect Greek goddess. So much so that Emmett had a sudden longing in his loins to kiss his wife. It had started out as a niggling thought when he first caught sight of her - but now, it was an obsession he couldn't get out of his bloody mind.

"No. I mean, how are you truly?" Emmett asked, forcing himself to make conversation rather than ravishing the woman before him. "I haven't seen you for eight years - and yet, we're married."

"I am absolutely fine," Rosalie assured her husband, unsure of where this conversation was going. She wasn't lying, she decided.

"How was living with your grandmother? The Dowager Duchess was a right tiger, if I remember," Emmett pressed.

"She died," Rosalie answered flatly, after a moment of silence.

Emmett stared. "When?" he demanded. "Who have you been living with then - in her absence?"

"An aunt," Rosalie said shortly, before turning away. She didn't want to air her grievances to her absentee husband of ten years on the first evening they spent together - there were many more evenings for that, if she ever wanted to rehash the past ten years living with a distant maternal aunt who traveled with an orchestra and hadn't the least bit of parental instinct.

Emmett watched his wife, and felt a sudden stab of guilt at having left her alone for ten years.

"Rosalie," he said, helplessly.

She looked up. Her eyes were a bewitching blue, the color of the Mediterranean sea.

Before he could stop himself, Emmett leaned over her and his lips drifted down on hers. He tasted surprise - surprise, and then acquisition - he cupped the back of her head in his large hand, and relaxed into the kiss. Her lips opened when she gasped - whether in surprise or pleasure, he couldn't tell - and Emmett took the invitation.

At which point the waltz going on outside the alcove, the ugly orange sofa, along with propriety all fell away. His groin tightened painfully as he kissed and nipped. Her skin was as smooth as silk under his callused fingers, as was her hair that he had gathered up in one large palm.

She would have fell backwards and let her husband have his way with her, except the curtains opened at that point.

"Well, I see you've found your wife," Edward Cullen drawled, a lazy grin on his face as he stood there, the curtains pulled to the side.

Rosalie scrambled upright, blushing wildly, and Emmett righted himself, still slouched. Truth to be told, his friend would have gotten an eyeful of the pole in his breeches if he bothered to stand.

"I have, indeed," he told Edward, allowing a grin to slip. "Rosalie, sweetheart - this is Edward Cullen, the Duke of Mason. Edward - my wife."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, at last," Edward grinned, bowing.

"Not as much as mine," Emmett muttered under his breath, adjusting his breeches, and Edward chuckled as he turned to leave the newly reunited couple.

-.-.-

Disclaimer:

This story is just a fiction of imagination. I do not claim to write true to historical times or events. All characters are originals of the Twilight franchise, not me!

A/N: Reviews are appreciated:)


	2. Chapter 2

The Earl of Blatchford Townhouse

September, 1890

The next day, Edward arrived at the Earl's townhouse before noon, a plan ready and a heavy bit of jewelry in his pocket.

The Swan's butler took his cloak, and informed him that Lady Isabella would shortly join their guests before ushering him into a spacious drawing room with more men and flowers than there were seats.

Edward felt a prick of chagrin. It hadn't occurred to him to bring flowers. He found flowers frivolous actually, but it was undeniable that women loved them - would Isabella look unfavorably upon his lack of horticultural offerings?

Never mind, Edward decided a split second later. It was her father who he had to come to an arrangement to, not the girl in question anyway.

"If you would join the morning callers, Your Grace," the butler was saying, "Lady Isabella should be down shortly."

"No," Edward decided. "I want to speak to Lord Swan. If he is available, of course." He did not ask. Edward never asked - he stated. Demanded sometimes, because he always got what he wanted. He was a Duke; Dukes did not ask. Looking around the drawing room, Edward felt certain that there needn't be any asking where Lady Isabella's hand was concerned, anyway.

The butler returned shortly, and Edward was lead through doors and hallways, until a great double-door of polished oak was thrown open.

"The Duke of Mason," the butler announced.

"Your Grace," the Earl greeted, standing.

"Lord Swan," Edward said in reply. "I'm here to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

Charles Swan simply nodded, and gestured to a comfortable looking armchair in front of his desk. "I have only one condition..."

Both Charles Swan and Edward Cullen were efficient men with clear, attainable goals in mind. They'd conducted business before, and as all previous times, discussions went smoothly and quickly.

Therefore, by the time Lady Isabella appeared in her father's study that afternoon, the negotiations surrounding her marital future had been concluded.

"You will be wed to the Duke of Mason," Charles Swan told his only daughter. His voice bore no room for arguments. "The wedding will be this Sunday."

"I would like your hand in marriage," Edward Cullen told his future wife, and that was that.

Isabella looked up at her father, and then at the Duke, before quickly lowering her eyes to her hands.

"Of course, Father," she said, and, "I would be honored to marry you, Your Grace."

"Excellent," both men declared at the same time.

Ten minutes later, Isabella returned to her chambers with a very heavy gold and diamond bangle on her left wrist, and a weeklong engagement.

Her maid clapped.

"Oh, Lady Isabella! I'm so happy for you!" Alice squealed. "Who would have thought you to catch a Duke on the night of your debut! He's supposedly richer than Croesus - his family owns all the grandest estates and businesses - look, it's even in the papers!"

Isabella just groaned, and flopped down face first onto her bed. Her head was throbbing, she was aching all over, and honestly, she hadn't a clue in hell as to who she was marrying.

"Remind me, Alice - did I even dance with him last night?"

"Twice in a row, my lady," Alice said. "He'd the big, tall fellow you danced the waltz with."

"Right," Isabella squinted, trying to recall who that was. She had horrible, horrible eyesight in the dark, and the romantic dim lighting her mother was going for when she planned for ball didn't help. It was all she could do last night to keep from walking into people and walls.

"Copper hair, green eyes," Alice helped, as she began attacking Isabella with the hairbrush.

"Ah."

"It's in the papers, my lady. Do you want to read it?"

"Is it ... complementary?" Isabella asked her maid. "I don't want to read a mean article about myself; I'm feeling bad enough as it is."

"Not at all," Alice said, putting the hairbrush aside to grab the papers. "They have very nice things to say about you."

Isabella grimaced before reading it.

 _'Is the Duke of Mason coming out of his eternal bachelor state?_ ' the title read.

Isabella groaned. "This man is either stupid or impulsive. He decides to marry me after two dances?"

"It was a waltz," Alice told her. "And not stupid or impulsive. He's clever _and_ decisive."

"Very manly characteristics - I wholeheartedly approve of him," Countess Swan agreed, entering her daughter's chambers without knocking. "My dear daughter - who would have thought you'd catch a duke on your first bow to society!"

"Yes, well. No one, it seems," Isabella grumbled. "Maybe he's blind. Who decides to marry after two dances? And a week-long engagement - I barely know this man!"

"Blinded by your beauty," Lady Renee said cheerfully. "You are beautiful, Isabella. You know that - you look like me! For heaven's sake, the whole ton knows about that. He probably heard about you even before yesterday night, you know. Everyone has been talking about _La Belle Isabella_ , daughter of the Ravishing Renee - "

Isabella sniggered. " _Maman_ , your self-confidence knows no bounds."

"Women," Lady Renee simply said. "We need to know our worth and take gladness in our bodies. If we don't love ourselves first, how will men love us? Isabella, my daughter - you are beautiful, and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise!" she said, grasping her daughter's face in both of her hands.

"Right," Isabella muttered.

Lady Renee turned her attention back to the pile of newspapers, and Alice resumed her brushing.

"Lost his heart to the beautiful swan," Lady Renee picked up another paper. "That is so romantic, is it not?"

Alice nodded in agreement, as Isabella rolled her eyes.

"Did the Duke actually say that he lost his heart? Because he didn't seem besotted to me - though my eyesight was so bad that I wouldn't know. You didn't light nearly enough lamps," Isabella frowned at her mother.

"His face spoke volumes," Lady Renee sighed, choosing to ignore her daughter's criticism of the lighting arrangements.

"It had better. We were completely silent while dancing, if I recall correctly."

"That's excellent," Lady Renee beamed. "It's for the better - that's how men like women."

"What? Mute and blind?"

"Don't be difficult. He'll love you regardless of your ability to see at night or make clever conversations."

"He'll love me for my delicious dowry," Isabella grinned. "Does it come with a crate of that expensive wine you drink like water?" Isabella asked her mother, nodding to the bottle Renee was taking a healthy swig from every now and then.

"I'm not sure. A cellar of it, maybe? I've never discussed your dowry with your father, actually. Maybe I'll stop drinking this - I'm not certain your new husband will appreciate my taste in liquid. I must develop some respectable traits so I'll be allowed to visit when we return to England."

"Why?" Isabella asked, rolling to the side as Alice finished with her hair. "Is he a stick? And where are you going?"

"I don't know him any better than you," Renee told her daughter, glancing at the bottle of wine quite forlornly. "And hasn't your father told you? We're going to Italy after your wedding."

"Italy! For how long? When?" Isabella asked, sitting upright suddenly. "And no, Father failed to mention anything of this sort."

"For a year or two. Your father has some business to conduct there, and he insisted that I follow along," Lady Renee said. "We're taking the ship next week - that's why your engagement is only a week long. It was a stipulation put out by your father, you know."

"I thought he was simply in a hurry to get rid of me," Isabella said bitterly. "Not only are you two washing your hands off me in such a haste - you're fleeing the country. Even you," she said, sounding a little betrayed. And she did feel betrayed, Isabella was dismayed to notice. All her life, her father had treated her with indifference and the occasional bouts of violence that bothered on cruelty - but her mother had been caring and relatively warm, or as caring as Renee could be. But now, even she was leaving Isabella all alone in England?

"Your husband will take care of you," Lady Renee said faintly. "Don't be upset, Isabella - "

"I'm not," Isabella said, looking away to prevent her mother from seeing the hurt in her eyes as she lied blatantly. "I'm truly not."

"No?" Lady Renee asked, doubtful.

"No. It's alright - father never did care much for me, anyway. He's probably overjoyed that I got engaged on my debut ball."

"It was a relief, certainly," Lady Renee mused, utterly oblivious to the way Isabella seemed to be even sadder at her proclamation of that fact. "I'm not sure what we would have done if we couldn't get you married out before we left the country."

Isabella sighed. "Tell me something about the Duke, then - since I'm due to marry him in a week. You said he's a bit of a stick?"

"A little bit stickish," Lady Renee decided, taking a swig of her alcohol again. "But nothing you're not used to, given your father's nature."

Isabella groaned. "I was hoping to avoid marrying someone like father," she said, her voice muffled from where she had buried it against her pillows.

"The Duke doesn't look like the violent sort," Lady Renee quickly said. "And your father is not so bad - I'm sorry. He only takes out his frustration on you because I can't provide a son for him - "

"He's out of the house all the time," Isabella continued, her voice growing louder and more muffled by the second as she aired her grievances for what might be the last time before her parents left. "And he hardly takes you anywhere. And when he's at home, all he does is scold me, or throw porcelain bits at me. Which is quite unfair, seeing that I've never given him the least cause to worry."

"You are the most obedient child anyone could wish for," Lady Renee said fiercely, reaching out to brush her thumb over the bruise her husband had left on her only daughter's cheek. Sometimes, Lady Renee wished she could do something to stop Charles from being so ... so mean to their daughter. She was their flesh and blood, after all, even though she lacked a prick and two balls down there. But whenever she tried to broach the subject, her husband grew even angrier, and turned his anger towards her. In her cowardice, Lady Renee had stopped trying to protect her only daughter from her husband's wrath.

Couldn't Isabella see that this was the best way out for her? Lady Renee wondered, trying to keep her own tears at bay.

"It doesn't matter, Isabella," Lady Renee managed to say, her voice coming out relatively steady despite the torrent of emotion she was feeling inside. Guilt. Anger. Inadequacy. "It doesn't matter. Your father and I are very lucky to have you."

"But I'm not a man," Isabella sighed, her body slumping as if in defeat. "And that's why father hates me, isn't it."

"Isabella," Lady Renee sighed, her voice helpless.

"It's alright," Isabella said, trying to sound cheerful even as she felt dreadfully tired and sad thinking about her father, and the obtuse reason why he seemed to enjoy throwing stuff at her, shouting at her, kicking her ...

"It's alright," she said again, a little louder this time. Whether she was trying to comfort her mother or herself, Isabella couldn't say.

-.-.-

On the road to Scotland

September, 1890

"How long will the journey be?" Rosalie asked her duke, trying not to fall asleep in the rocking carriage. She hadn't been able to sleep a wink all night, courtesy of errant thoughts regarding one Duke of Argyll, Emmett McCarthy, and the lulling motion of the carriage was threatening to pull her into the zones of jumping sheep.

"Five days, a week at most," Emmett assured her. "Are you tired, my dear? We'll stop at an Inn tonight, I've had my agent ride ahead of us to ensure the rooms are booked."

"No, I'm perfectly fine," Rosalie assured her husband, staring at him with wide eyes. Emmett was sprawled across from her on the cushions, indolent and boneless, despite having rode for three hours along-side the carriage on a gigantic thoroughbred.

"Excellent," Emmett murmured, staring over at his wife lazily. His wife. It was almost unreal, how he was traveling in a carriage with the girl he'd been married to after ten years of not seeing her. She had grown into a lovely, sensual, utterly ravishing Venus that Emmett was longing to unclothe and have his way with, and only the deeper desire to first have her in his bed stopped him from doing that there in the carriage. As it were, his pants were uncomfortably tight and he had a perpetual rod in his pants. Any more of this and he was sure his balls would drop off.

"What we should do is get to know each other better," Emmett decided, after a lull in the conversation. "In the normal course of events, we'd be married and bored by now, knowing everything about each other from the way we drink our tea to side of the bed we sleep on. But as it is, I don't even know what you've done this week."

"I've attended a ball," Rosalie pointed out the obvious. "And it's hardly my fault that my husband leapt out a window before the ink had barely dried on the wedding documents and set sail for Africa."

"That is true," Emmett acknowledged. "And I am sorry - if I had known that your parents had passed - I'd have returned sooner, I swear."

"There's no need," Rosalie sighed, looking away. She so hated awkward conversation. And what she hated more than awkward conversation was pity, which was plain in her husband's eyes. It irked her, and Rosalie refused to be irked by something that wasn't her fault. "What have you been doing in Africa?" she asked instead. "Your father said you were tracing a blue river or something."

"Yes," Emmett said. "The River Nile. It runs through Egypt - along the great pyramids and such. I traced it for a bit - a geographer commissioned me to - and then traced the Blue Nile that runs off into Ethiopia. It was beautiful - all clear blue water and clear blue sky."

"Aren't all rivers blue?" Rosalie asked, sounding dubious.

"I find the rivers in England rather grey and brown," Emmett said. "At any rate, it was lovely. They have beautiful fabric too, in Egypt. In fact, I bought back all sorts of silk and cotton. They're in a shipping cargo that I've sent my agent to collect and send ahead so you can have some new gowns made. Or sheets for our bed, if you'd prefer."

"That- that's nice," Rosalie stuttered, shocked that her husband would think of that.

"Why?" Emmett teased. "Did you think I had forgotten entirely about my wife while I was having the time of my life miles away?"

Rosalie met his eyes, and Emmett saw that she did, in fact, think that.

"Oh, Rosie," Emmett sighed, a deep, heavy sigh of a man who felt deeply.

"I'm sorry," Rosalie said, blinking. "I wasn't sure - I thought - "

"You thought I didn't want you," Emmett said, crossing the bench to sit next to his wife. He pulled Rosalie's striking form into his arms, and laid back against the cushions. "Well, I did. I do. I was irresponsible for leaving you the way I did - but I was twenty - "

"I know," Rosalie murmured. "I know."

-.-.-

The inn was a flurry of activity when they arrived that evening. There were a great deal of people, all men wearing Emmett's colors, black and dark green, leading horses hither and thither and hoisting trunks. Emmett helped Rosalie down the carriage, and a tall, dark man bowed.

"Welcome to the Kelp's Inn, Your Grace," the man said, stiff and formal. He looked older than Emmett, with a moustache that was graying.

Emmett slapped the man on the back in greeting, hugging him roughly with the one hand he wasn't holding on to Rosalie. "Rosie, meet Garrett McAllen, my factor - or estate manager, rather. I've inherited him from my father. McAllen - this is my wife."

"Pleasure to meet you, Duchess," Garrett bowed low again. "Welcome to the Kelp's Inn. You've the best bedchamber, Your Grace, and the innkeeper's wife has prepared a special dinner for you."

Emmett grinned, and patted his stomach. "I am looking forward to it," he declared. "Where is the innkeeper and his wife who has cooked for me? We shall thank them and partake in the surely delicious dinner they have so kindly prepared, and retire to rest."

An hour later, they had retired to the bedchamber. Rosie's maid had prepared a hot bath, which sat steaming in the middle of the room, behind a thin screen.

Emmett looked at the hot water, and then at Rosalie, his loins aching.

Rosalie swallowed. How was she to bathe with her husband in the same room? She hadn't even seen him in almost ten years! It was borderline embarrassing, this situation she was finding herself in. Would it be rude for her to ask Emmett to leave the chambers? What was the point of that, really, Rosalie thought in the next second, still standing stock still in the middle of the room. He was bound to see her naked sooner or later.

But her maid made the decision for her.

"Lady Rosalie will bathe in private," Kate told Emmett firmly. "You may wait outside, Your Grace. She will be ready in half an hour."

"Why - " Emmett said, sounding almost surprised. He'd never been told what to do by anybody before, much less a maid. "I have prepared a bath for you in your dressing room," Kate continued on, unperturbed. "You may bathe in there."

Bemused, and with not much of a choice, Emmett turned into the adjoining dressing room, but not before giving Rosalie a lingering, meaningful glance that spoke of the night ahead.

Their wedding night - albeit ten years late.

When he returned, hair damp and freshly bathed with naught but a tiny scrap of towel around his waist, Rosalie was in the bed. She was wearing a French nightgown of pale pink silk, the color of the youngest of roses. Emmett inhaled sharply. Rosalie was sitting on the covers, and the silk of her nightgown caught between her extended legs as she reclined on the pillows.

"You look exquisite," Emmett exhaled, his voice strangled. "I was a right fool to leave you alone for ten years," he said, stalking over the room to the large bed.

Rosalie shrugged, the movement causing the neckline of her flimsy nightgown to slide down her right shoulder, exposing an expanse of silky white skin.

"You are the prettiest thing I've ever laid my eyes on," Emmett continued, now sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving her body.

"What about all that naked people in Africa?" Rosalie asked, her voice deceptively light.

"They were men," Emmett told his wife, now leaning over her. "And I am only interested in women. You. I want you," he said, reaching out a large hand to cup the back of her head. "Desperately."

Rosalie blinked, and Emmett took that as consent.

Large hands fumbled with her gown, until the laces were untied and rose silk was slipping off her shoulders - her hips - and she was bare under him. Somehow, his towel can came undone, and Rosalie could feel his very large male appendage poking her in the hips.

"What - " Rosalie started, feeling strangely shy, as Emmett's large hands ghosted over her body tenderly. "Aren't you going to -"

But he was kissing her in the next moment, deep boneless kisses that made her wind her arms around his neck and pull his body down onto hers. Instinct taught her everything she needed; her hands slid down his muscled back and onto his bottom, curving over firm buttocks, slipping between his legs.

"You - " His voice was pained, and he arched his back. "Oh god, Rosie - that feels so good."

She started laughing, laughter of relief and pure joy, and his mouth came down on hers with desperation. His tongue danced with hers, and she bucked her hips against him. Emmett groaned, and adjusted his body such that he was laying in between her legs. Then, his stiff, firm cock was right there, right where Rosalie was aching and wet, and -

And he was licking a path down her neck, sucking and nipping, and a large hand caressed her right breast -

Rosalie moaned, and shifted her hips.

And then, he pressed against her, slipping into her wet folds, and she arched her back.

"Rosie," Emmett exhaled, kissing her again with wild abandon as he pulled back and then thrust forward again, fanning the flame that was steadily building in her middle. "Does it - hurt?"

"No," Rosalie managed to answer through the haze of pleasure that was consuming her. "Don't- don't stop," she bit out, arching her hips towards him.

"Gladly," Emmett said, and then nothing more was said within their bedchamber, only the sounds of pleasure and that of the large bed creaking surrounding them.

-.-.-


	3. Chapter 3

The Duke of Mason's Townhouse

September 1890

"I have asked for Lord Swan's daughter's hand in marriage," Edward announced at breakfast the next day. Emmett had left for Scotland the day before, having procured his wife, and it was only Edward and his aunt and uncle at the table this morning. "He has given his consent. The wedding will take place this Sunday."

"This Sunday?" Carlisle repeated, surprised.

"You're engaged?" Esme said at the same time, wonder in her voice. "Why, you certainly are... efficient, Edward."

"You told me to go get a wife," Edward said, sounding a tiny bit defensive. "Well, I did."

"I see," Carlisle said. "You decided to marry her after what -"

"Two dances," Esme supplied. "It's all in the newspapers. You danced with Lady Isabella twice in a row - and now you're engaged! Wonders never cease to happen."

"Why the hurry?" Carlisle asked. "You didn't do anything dishonorable to the girl, did you, Edward? Because - "

"No, no. Nothing of that sort, Uncle Carlisle," Edward hurried to reassure. "The Earl and his wife are going away to Italy - next Monday."

"My goodness," Esme muttered. "And they're not bringing their daughter along, I take it - hence the hasty engagement."

"Precisely."

"Lady Isabella must feel hurt, the poor thing," Esme murmured.

"How are you getting married in such a haste?" Carlisle asked. "Who is going to marry the two of you?"

"Grand Uncle William is a bishop, isn't he? I'll go over and ask him for a special license after breakfast."

"You seem very determined to wed the girl," Carlisle observed.

"I am," Edward replied, and that was the end of the discussion.

-.-.-

The day of her wedding had arrived - or rather, the day she and her belongings were to be shipped off like cows at a barnyard sale had arrived.

Isabella's bridal gown had been fitted, sewn, and surprisingly, given the short engagement period, altered to fit her body perfectly.

"No daughter of mine will be married off without a proper wedding gown," Lady Renee had declared. Many sovereigns lighter and two seamstress later, a gown was made in three days.

This morning, Lady Renee bustled into her daughter's room before the sun was up. They had decided on an afternoon ceremony at St. Peter's chapel, courtesy of Edward's grand-uncle.

"Why are you not getting ready!" Lady Renee half-yelled, staring at her daughter, who was still bathing in a tub of steaming water and Lavender.

"I am," Isabella blinked, staring at her soapy arm. "I'm bathing at seven a.m., this is as much of getting ready as can possibly be, _Maman_."

"Well - " Lady Renee huffed, looking uncharacteristically flummoxed. "You have to be scrubbed clean, everywhere. Everywhere, Alice - you get my meaning? Tonight- tonight the Duke will visit your bedchambers, Isabella - and - "

Isabella flushed, watching her mother attempt to give her advice regarding the wedding night.

"And it is - it might be painful, at first - but men live for their night-time activities, so do not push your husband away even if you bleed and ache. Sometimes it gets better. Whatever you do - do not push your husband away, you are understanding me, Isabella?" Lady Renee ended, almost fiercely.

"Y-yes, _Maman_ ," Isabella muttered, raising her eyes to look at her mother, surprised. Lady Renee had never been too much of the maternal sort, and given the cold nature of her relationship with Charles Swan, no one would peg her as one to dispense of marital advice.

"You are a good girl," Lady Renee muttered, now crossing over to look out the window as Isabella stepped out of the bath. "And obedient, God knows you are. It will always be my good fortune to have you - never doubt that for a second. And as your mother, I would like to give you advice that would make your marriage different from mine. Better, a warmer marriage. But I do not know what to say."

Tears pressed at the back of Isabella's eyes. "It's alright, _Maman_."

Lady Renee swung around, and sat down in a high-backed chair by the fireplace. "It's not alright, Isabella. I ruined my marriage somehow - I don't know how. So, as I said - never refuse your husband in bed. I have thought for years that I shouldn't have ordered your father from the bedroom - so what if he was having an affair? I was his wife, and it is his prerogative to bed me. Perhaps if I hadn't, you would have had a brother by now - and your father wouldn't ... I was a capricious fool, Isabella. Now that I'm almost forty, I would give anything to take back those words. Don't do it, Isabella. No matter how angry you are, never let Lord Edward know."

Isabella nodded silently, the reason behind her parents cold marriage suddenly clear.

"I won't," she whispered.

Just then, Alice reappeared with a hairbrush and a small phalanx of maids.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," Alice said, curtsying in the Countess's direction, "but we are ready to start packing Lady Isabella's trunks now, and the footmen are ready to bring them outside."

Lady Renee nodded and then stood up, looking at Isabella. She ran her hand over Isabella' hair. "He cannot help but fall in love with you, Isabella. I am sure all my advice is for naught."

Isabella smiled at that, but after Renee left the room and the maids started bustling around, combing and moisturizing and tugging, she sat, thinking. Her mother was right, Isabella thought. I must never say no to Edward. Never.

-.-.-

Renee Swan felt a warm glow of satisfaction in the pit of her stomach as she looked discreetly over the mass of gentlefolk occupying St. Peter's Chapel at three o'clock. She had rummaged up every single relation the Earl and herself could lay claim to, as had in essence, done the same with Edward's family. Given that it consisted of one uncle and aunt, and the Bishop conducting the ceremony, they were understandably few in number. But however few of them there were, they were all prominently in view.

"Stop peering, Renee," Esme Cullen told her, mildly amused.

Lady Renee looked towards the front of the church. Edward looked imperturbable, standing up there with his uncle. The two Cullen men stood like rocks, steady and large. Lady Renee hoped Edward was as dependable as he looked - Lord knew that Isabella needed someone like that. Someone dependable, consistent, gentle. Someone unlike her parents.

Just then, the hush and hum that always precedes the entrance of a bride fell over the chapel. Isabella appeared in the recessed columns at the side, her hand resting lightly on her father's sleeve.

As Isabella walked quietly beside her father - the first time in her entire life her father had bothered to hold her - her gown gleamed palely in the late afternoon light. She looked innocent, fragile, otherworldly. No one would dream of a scandal, despite the extremely short engagement. Isabella's hair spilled down her back in a flood of chocolate and mahogany, adorned only by two diamond clips on either side. She was the snow princess from a Russian folk tale, Renee thought.

Her dress was made of pearly ivory satin, caught up under the bodice and laid over with a shimmering overdress that extended into a train. The sleeves were short, the bodice modest, and Isabella wore high satin gloves. Golden Brussels lace from her father's manufacturing company were added on the bodice, to the line of overskirt as it fell from her bosom, to the border of the shorter gown and the train. The lace caressed Isabella's creamy skin and emphasized the curve of her breasts and the length of her slim legs.

And Lord, but Isabella looked enthralling, even if the lace was there to advertise her father's company.

Edward's breath caught in his throat as Isabella moved towards him without meeting his gaze. She raised her eyes only after she and the Earl had reached the altar. Then, for a brief second - for the second time in her life - Isabella's eyes met Edward, and she blushed, looking down at the roses in her hand. Edward smiled, the edge of his eyes crinkling, even as the intent, languorous heat rising from his body stifled his impulse to grin with abandon and swing his bride around.

Bishop Cullen cast his grandnephew an admonishing look from under bushy eyebrows. He'd agreed to lead the service out of respect for Edward's dead father. Lord knew that such a short engagement was as scandalous as it could possibly be.

Well, there wasn't time to think about that - he had a ceremony to get on with.

"Dearly beloved," the bishop intoned, "We are gathered her together in the sight of God..."

Isabella began to tremble, as the bishop's voice jerked her out of a dreamlike state. She could sense her father standing behind her, and she had to stifle the urge to run and hide from him. She wanted to run and hide from it all, for that matter - but propriety made her stand in position.

As the bishop wound through the familiar words of the service, he noted that the bride was looking uncharacteristically frightened. He puzzled over it for a moment - but brushed it aside as nerves. Perhaps there wasn't actually much scandal in this wedding, just an impatient thirty-year old who had other things in life to get on with, and the bride was simply nervous for the wedding night.

Finally, he turned to Isabella with the command, "Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together..."

Edward looked at Isabella, as did the entire congregation.

Isabella swallowed. "I will," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Yes, the bishop thought, at least the bride seemed to be virginal and pure. He, for one, approved of Isabella's white face and trembling fingers as she swore on the prayer book. Brides should be meek and small. Yes, small and meek, those were the best sort of bride. Edward's granduncle clapped the prayer book shut, suddenly realizing that he'd drone his way through the entire service. "I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together," he finally said. "You may kiss the bride," he told Edward.

Edward turned Isabella to face him, pride swelling in his breast. He was very pleased with himself, very pleased indeed. The whole transaction felt right. He had the same feeling when he purchased a ship from that new American company. Sure enough, the ship had weathered a hurricane off the coast of Africa and was on her fifth voyage now. He was almost half a million pounds richer, thanks to that exchange.

Edward drew Isabella towards him, and lowered his head. His lips captured hers; his breeches tightened, and cell in his body wanted to ravish her there and then. But of course, Edward didn't. By the sheer willpower of his soul, Edward kept the kiss chaste and appropriate.

As they drew apart, husband and wife looked at each other for a moment, before walking back down the aisle.

-.-.-

Nearing Castle McCarthy

September, 1890

It was a castle. A huge castle made of dark gray granite, with overhanging windows and little turrets and even what appeared to be a formal pond out front. They had been driving all morning, and after the energetic and acrobatic nights with Emmett in different inns, Rosalie was feeling rather sore in unmentionable places. She was more than ready to get out of the bouncing carriage. Judging from Emmett's large wandering hand that was stroking her legs over her skirts, he too was more than ready to get out of the carriage and into his bedroom in his castle - for different reasons.

They rounded a bend in the road, finally, the castle came into view, shimmering in a pink mist left from a quick rainstorm.

"That's the forest," Emmett said, pointing out the trees behind the castle. "A river runs that way, behind the castle. We pipe it in through pipes my father installed - I put a plunge bath behind the kitchen."

"A plunge bath?" Rosalie intoned. "How wonderful!"

"Indeed," Emmett grinned. "I also had a proper heated bath put into the master bedroom a few years ago. Of course - since I haven't been back - I can't say if it works any good. But you'll find out," he decided happily.

Rosalie nodded. She was going to be the Duchess of the gigantic castle - it seemed like a humongous task, and she wasn't sure that she was up to it. When Rosalie was younger, she used to dream of living in a castle. Now that she was going to live in one, she wasn't sure how she felt.

She looked back at the castle below, and the outriders played a piping call on the trumpet.

"What on earth is that," Emmett muttered, at the same time Rosalie jumped in her seat. "I assure you that I do not generally announce myself like a king with billowing trumpets - all these is very new to me, too."

"I'm sure," Rosalie said drily. Of course there were no trumpets in Africa, she thought.

The carriage seemed to pick up speed, rushing down the hill, and now Rosalie could see that the great front doors were open, and there were a group of people lining themselves up left and right in rows.

Emmett was grinning down at the castle, his brown eyes sparkling. The coach drew up with a great rattle of gravel flying from the wheels, and Emmett stepped out, offering his hand to Rosalie.

"Welcome, to Castle McCarthy."

The servants grinned and curtseyed and bowed as Emmett's butler took charge and introduced each one, by rank and position. In all, Emmett had eight footmen, three kitchen maids, a housekeeper, five castle maids, a cook, a gardener, two stable managers, and several other men in charge of little things that Rosalie didn't manage to keep track of.

Emmett managed to greet almost all his staff by name. "Not much change, huh?" he said cheerfully. "Shall we go in?" he turned to Rosalie, who took his arm.

"Of course," she said, looking slightly overwhelmed.

The castle had great doors hewn from oak that swung open to reveal a vast antechamber, large enough to receive a king and all of his court. The ceiling arched far above them, the stones looking ancient and solid, though clean. The stone floor was clean, though bare.

"Your Grace," the butler started. "We cleaned the castle from top to bottom in awaiting for your arrival. However - the decorations - " the butler struggled for words here, and Rosalie could understand why. The castle was certainly clean and sparkling, though bare and lacking of any artistic intent.

A small vase of freshly plucked flowers on an ancient stand in the corner provided the only bit of color in the room.

"No matter," Emmett said happily. "Lady Rosalie - the Duchess will handle all that now, wouldn't you, Rosie? I've brought fabric and furniture and sculptures back from Africa and Greece, we'll have the castle looking ... looking lived-in in no time."

The butler and maids looked fairly cheered at that thought, and Rosalie blinked. She knew practically nothing about interior design, and as Emmett led her through the empty halls and rooms, she realized that Castle McCarthy had quite a bit of interior to it.

Finally, they came to the master bedchamber.

The master bedchamber was dominated by a gigantic bed, shaped like a sled.

"It's lovely," Rosalie said, awed.

"My parents brought it back from their wedding trip to Italy," Emmett said. "Shall we travel to celebrate our wedding? Perhaps to the Americas?"

There was a teasing lilt in his voice, but Rosalie made a face. "No. No. I'm not travelling to the middle of nowhere with you."

He laughed, opening the door to the bathroom.

Rosalie sighed, and walked into the bathroom. She stopped still in surprise. The walls were tiled blue and white, with hand painted fishes on the tiles. The bath itself was made of white marble, finer than gems.

"My parents had it sent from Italy," Emmett said. "I do believe it is large enough for two." There was a hint of laughter in his voice. Beyond that was pure desperation, a hunger that Rosalie couldn't refuse. So when he reached around her and undid the buttons at the back of her gown, she didn't protest. Instead, she shrugged out of her dress, undid the ribbons that held her chemise close, and helped him with his breeches.

When they finally made it out of the bathroom, the sun had set and it was way past supper time.

Rosalie's maid was fretting about outside the door in the bedroom, holding up two gowns for her mistress when Emmett and Rosalie re-emerged.

"Lady Rosalie," her maid was saying, "you only have two gowns with long-sleeves, and there is a chill in the air - "

"You could go down to dinner naked," Emmett suggested, eyeing Rosalie's form clad in a thin dressing robe. "There's only the two of us."

"And the footmen, and the cook, and the housekeeper," Rosalie reminded him, rolling her eyes before turning back to her maid Kate and accepting the first gown Kate held up. "I'll dress in private, if you don't mind," Rosalie said, looking at Emmett, her fingers on the ribbon that tied the robe shut.

"As long as I get to undress you in private later," Emmett winked, before hopping out the room.

Rosalie blushed, avoiding her maid's eye as she dressed her mistress and brushed her hair dry.

The dining room was cavernous, and dubiously heated by fireplaces at either end.

"Technically, you should be seated there," Emmett said, pointing to the far end of the dining table. "I remember my parents dining so, as if they were marooned on separate islands. But it makes no sense having only the two of us, so I've asked the footmen to seat us all at one end."

Beautiful old china was set for Emmett and Rosalie, two seats out of a whole forty. "But this table is surely meant for a whole clan," Rosalie exclaimed, taking her seat. "Why haven't you replaced it with a smaller one?"

"I wasn't around to realize my family had shrunken till all that was left was me - and now you," Emmett muttered, helping himself to a generous serving of lamb.

-.-.-

On the way to the Duke of Mason's Townhouse

September 1890

They had danced again at the reception ball after the ceremony, and if they had little to be said between them, the crackling chemistry and almost palpable desire coming off from Edward was more than enough to convince their relatives that it was a love-match.

"Just look at the way he looks at her," one relative whispered loudly to another. "He's positively _hungry_."

Indeed, Edward's green eyes seemed to glare a hole in every other men's back when they danced with Isabella. His fingers itched to snatch his wife away from those men, and only when she was safely back in his arms did he relax. Even then, his eyes looked upon her so intensely that the Duke almost looked like cat hunting for his prey.

Finally, the time came for the newlyweds to leave.

"Time to go, Isabella," Edward said, coming up behind his wife while she was talking to his grand-uncle, the Bishop. He slid his hands up from her hips to her waist, and Isabella felt a jolt of something she wasn't able to place.

"Go?" Isabella jumped, her eyes wide.

Edward grinned.

Isabella felt her heart beat double-time. "Y-yes, Lord Cullen - "

"Edward," Edward said, guiding her out the reception hall to say good-bye to the guests. "I'm Edward now, your husband."

"Y-yes, Lo- Edward," Isabella hurriedly amended, her eyes falling to the ground at her mistake. She'd nearly flinched away from him at her slip of tongue, expecting a fist to come her way as was the way with her father, but there was none. Only the steady pressure of Edward's large palm in the small of her back, guiding her.

Isabella's parents were waiting for them at the ballroom door, and Isabella curtseyed. Lady Renee looked at the small head bowed before hers, and her eyes swam with tears. The daughter she never managed to protect; never did stand up for. And now, she was getting married to a man she'd met once. Never before had Lady Renee felt her failure as a mother as acutely as this moment.

"Oh, Isabella," Lady Renee said, swallowing her tears. " _Ma fille_ ," she said, pulling Isabella into her arms before lapsing into French. " _Sois heureuse, ma chere! Je te souhaite tout le mieux pour ta vie mariee_..."

Isabella swallowed her own tears. "I will be happy, Maman," she promised.

Charles nodded gruffly at Isabella, and shook Edward's hand. "Take care of Isabella," he said. Charles looked a little strained around the eyes, but otherwise he was as jovial and nonchalant as if he'd just closed a magnificent business deal.

Edward nodded, and together, the pair walked off down the aisle, and into the awaiting ducal carriage.

-.-.-

Isabella had known that this day was coming for all of a week, since her father had announced the engagement. Her trunks had been hauled out that morning, and Alice had been relocated to the Cullen's townhouse together with her belongings. But somehow, Isabella hadn't pictured actually leaving the reception. Getting into a carriage alone with Edward. Getting into a bed!

And here she was, seated side by side with her husband of all of three hours.

And he was speaking to her in low, dulcet tones.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to plan for a wedding trip," Edward told Isabella apologetically, his large hand covering hers. "Parliament has convened; I was unable to take time away. But we will plan a trip for the summer - do you fancy France? Or Wales? Or perhaps Scotland, I have an estate there."

Isabella startled, and looked up into Edward's eyes. She was genuinely surprised, for no one had asked for her opinion before.

"I am sure whatever you choose will be delightful, Edward," she said, carefully.

Edward beamed, and squeezed her hand.

Underneath his larger palm, Isabella felt strangely safe.

-.-.-


End file.
